And Absolution Finds Me
by elle-nic
Summary: She asks as if I will not give everything to her. As if I wouldn't sell my soul to the devil to make her happy. A sequel to Should Be Obvious but can be read alone. Miranda and Andy are married but Miranda will always need reassurance. Andy is only happy to provide. Sort of angsty but not sad, I promise! Now from our favourite fashion maven's perspective!


I had anticipated that the only saving grace for this tedium which I am forced to endure would be alleviated by the woman who accompanied me. Andrea, in my musings of how the evening would unfold, would be by my side and able to keep the droll masses at least mildly tolerable. As it turns out, much to my displeasure, she is in fact not by my side and the masses are still audaciously droll and flocking to me. It is entirely incomprehensible that we have been so thoroughly separated by a few uninteresting admirers. Is it too much to ask that they leave my wife and I be? I'm not reaching for the stars.

The gentlemen speaking now, the one that had the wife that pulled Andrea to the side, really has faith that he is keeping my interest, but my attentions lie with the quickest route to the other side of this cavernous, distastefully decorated (which imbecile should be strung for that chandelier?) ballroom. The dance floor holds promise, but I'm not daft enough to think I can get through there without being pulled into conversation or god forbid, dancing. It shall have to be the long way around to get to my darling.

"Yes, Walt, it's all so very interesting. If you'll excuse me," I interrupt the bespectacled man blabbering on about something I lost interest in before he even started speaking. He's still stuttering even as I walk away from him and the few lingering zombies near him. Where do they find these people?

Fortunately, there are still people who can read social cues and facial expressions in the room and as I'm walking around the dance floor no one bothers to approach me. I don't have the grace or patience to politely excuse myself anymore. I haven't seen Andrea in nearly half an hour, and that is completely unsatisfactory. The poor girl could be caught in some politically oriented conversation, Syria or Iraq or something, and god knows she has too much sweetness in her to eject herself. Or perhaps my darling lost her patience too; I certainly wouldn't blame her.

From the middle of the dance floor, I hear a lovely voice, my favourite one, asking someone a question. Surely Andrea hasn't been dancing? The thought of someone's arms around my wife makes me flush with envy, but as I turn my head, a slow rotation to feign disinterest, I see Andrea, resplendent in an ivory gown and long hair, caught in the grasp of some bottom-feeding scoundrel. It is clear to me that she is there against her will. My envy evaporates and is replaced by my own special brand of fury. It prickles my skin, makes my fingers twitch and my lips purse. I must move closer and take that heathen's hands off my woman.

I'm unable to mask my emotions quite as I'd like so my gait is a little too fast to be casual, but no one dares comment for the heat in my gaze. I see Andrea tug at her arm, and instead of releasing her as I expect of anyone possessing any manners at all, the cad holds tighter. He's lucky I don't really breathe fire.

"Melissa? Melanie?"

His voice is as slimy as his gaze. Usually looking is alright, because I know what Andrea looks like beneath her gowns, and I know that I am the one that will take her home and remove the gown to see and touch my fill of the woman I love. But this man's gaze is so lecherous it makes me sick, and the thought of Andrea, who should be respected and cherished above all else (besides our girls) being subjected to that gaze ignites my scorn.

"…Money? Men?"

And he dares besmirch the necklace she wears with his filthy insinuations? The gifts we purchased for one another when we got engaged, the gift that shows I am hers and she is mine, and he thinks it stands for money or men?

"Actually," I manage to bite out.

And those eyes turn to me, look at me with such relief that I am caught and freed in a single point in time. This creature, beautiful and dazzling, turns to me to save her, is relieved to see me? If I am a dragon then she is my treasure, and dragons don't tolerate thieves.

"The 'M' stands for two things," I say in my iciest register. The boy freezes as he should. I move quickly to Andrea, rip that cockroach's hand from sacred flesh and cover the place with my own, removing his stain upon her skin. I turn to him, Andrea's forearm in my hands and gesture to my person.

"Miranda," I scowl. His eyes don't widen in the realisation of who I am, who Andrea is, but I relish in the fear that blooms in him anyway. I pull Andrea's left hand up to his and to everyone's gaze.

"And married," I growl. My hands cradle my darling's left hand where her lovely, slender fingers are decorated by her commitment to me. The diamond winks playfully in the light of the ballroom and the toad of a man gulps. He tries to turn a glare on me. When that doesn't work, and it truly doesn't, he turns his ire to Andrea. Were I still in the East End of London and still Miriam, I might have slugged him in the nose and left him to simper on the floor. Fortunately for him, I am not Miriam and simply nod to the security guards that have appeared behind him. The fool doesn't even notice.

He's being dragged away and the guests are getting nosy again. A simple glare turns their attentions elsewhere and my vexation returns.

If Andrea was not separated from me, then she would not have been accosted in the middle of a dance floor and if that dreadfully boring pair of glasses hadn't pinned me down with dreadfully boring conversation, I might have been able to prevent this whole shameful display from happening to Andrea. Andrea who is so good and kind to everyone, and doesn't deserve to be disrespected by anyone let alone some self-important waste of a good Armani suit-

"Thank you." I feel the words on my skin more than I hear them and cannot dispute that they are genuine. I turn to look at arresting chocolate orbs and let out a silent grunt before guiding her from the room. No one would dare ask why we are leaving early and it's just as well. I can hardly tell someone I'm going to fuck my wife into a very expensive mattress; wouldn't be polite, see.

The elevator is an unimportant blur, and the next time I'm seeing in focus, Andrea is against the wall and my mouth is finally on her lovely skin. I nip and lick and taste her, find the spot that makes her mewl so beautifully and relieve her of her dress and shoes. No bra and barely a thong greet me and it's all I can do not to push her to the floor and fuck her brains out right there. Some small voice over the blood rushing in my ears tells me she deserves a bed and a proper reaffirmation of her wifely status to me. I nod, but Andrea is drunk with lust so she barely notices me taking her to the bedroom. She's on her back and naked in scant seconds, just her rings and her necklace adorn her.

I like her best this way.

"You are mine, Andrea. You belong to me," I manage to say. She cannot forget. She cannot forget that I am the one who is here, who gives her orgasms and love and our children. She will never have room for the thoughts of another. I will die before she leaves me.

She nods frantically, her hair spilling so artfully over the Egyptian cotton sheets as I stalk nearer. She stills herself, knows not to challenge me in these moments and I appreciate the compliance. Getting her to submit of her own volition is almost as heady as being inside her.

I climb onto the foot of the bed, all fours, and slowly glide up to her. She is silent, knows I will latch onto her if she dares make a noise. I like to let her think she lasts well at this part of our play. Truthfully, I could make her cry out for me in less than a second if I wanted to, but she is so pretty when she bites her lip to stifle moans and groans. So pretty to watch her give in to me when it becomes too much for her. I am not so patient tonight. I move immediately to her nipples, blushed and such a natural pink that can never be imitated perfectly. One warm breath and already she nearly gives in, once more and she does. Her groan is so soft, so tender it nearly makes my eyes water. I push away my melancholia and gaze brightly at her. She says my eyes twinkle when I fuck her, and I believe her.

She's made a noise for me. An invitation to touch, but first, she must submit. It never takes long, but I don't want to wait anymore. My right hand smooths her silky skin from her hip to her breastbone. I give her a moment to adjust to my touch before I wrap my fingers around her gracile neck, so perfect in my palm. I look down into her eyes, I know she can see my turmoil, the grievance of another's touch on her body. Her eyes soothe me though, they always do and in a sweet moment of connection between us, she tilts her neck just so, and I know I have won.

"He touched you, Andrea," I whisper into the curve of that neck. "You know how unacceptable I find that." I feel her tremors and the jerk of her jaw as she nods. I let my left hand make itself known to her by gripping her hip, it has widened since she gave us our third daughter, and her femininity has only grown more enticing since. I move on to her thigh and nudge her to open up for me. I can smell her as soon as her thighs are parted. She smells dewy and musky and mouth-watering, and I make plans to taste her later. I grin at her, slightly crazed with her desire for me. I will never tire of knowing that she wants me, needs me even. I brush her thigh, dangerously close to where she wants me, and her hips jog in their search for my touch. She knows I will only touch her if I want to, but she doesn't know I always want to touch, never want to stop in the fear that she won't let me one day. I let her think my desire ebbs and flows when for me it is a constant. As constant as the stars and just as white hot.

To think she will refuse me one day tears me apart, but I always ask even if I am afraid sometimes of the answer.

"Will you deny me, Andrea?" Her breath hitches.

"Will you deny me what is mine?" She shakes her head, and I nearly sigh in relief. She wants me another day yet.

"No? Good girl."

I don't give her warning before I slide home. She's tight and wet and warm, at the perfect angle for me to reach the spot that drives her wild. It wasn't planned, but it is such a happy coincidence. She knows she must beg now. I will not continue, not unless I know she wants it. I would beg on my knees for her every day for the rest of my life for her to stay with me, to let me touch her, bask in her light. In these moments I need to hear her, need to hear her beg for me the way I do for her. I cannot breathe until she does.

My lips rest against her lovely neck, the only contact other than around her throat and deep inside her. I grin as I smell her desperation, flowery and musky, as she wriggles her hips to make my fingers move. Just a few moments and she will give in to me. She does try so very hard, and I admire her perseverance, but I am too weary for this game to last. She might have held out for longer if I hadn't curled my fingers. But I did, and she doesn't and her voice is so lovely when she wants me.

"Please, Miranda, please."

I chuckle at those words. She asks as if I will not give everything to her. As if I wouldn't sell my soul to the devil to make her happy.

I pull back my hand, ready to please her, to make her begging worthwhile.

"No! Please," she begs again. I hate that she thinks I will leave her (though it has happened once before, never again.). I hush her and kiss behind her ear. I will not leave her wanting for anything.

I push my fingers back in all the way and don't hesitate to repeat once I'm fully sheathed in her, curling to caress the rough patch inside her. I make sure to grind my palm into her on the downstrokes, unworried about my roughness because I know Andrea likes to feel me. It doesn't feel like time moves properly when I'm with her. It goes too fast when we're together, and far too slowly when we're apart.

It feels like seconds before she is tightening around me. I squeeze her throat enough to restrict air from her lungs knowing she always comes harder that way. She hasn't asked for permission yet, and I worry she will come anyway. I don't want to feel that she can have pleasure without my input, I want her to always feel because of me. Can't bear the thought of her finding it with another.

"Please," she gasps. I look into her eyes and savour the sounds of her body accepting me, enjoying me, as they echo in the room. She tightens further and I raise my brow to hide the panic at her disregarding my giving her this pleasure. The thought hurts as bad as her possible rejection.

"Please may I come?" She manages in a short breath. My eyes lose their tightness, the worried frown on my lips melts away and I am left with wondering why I ever doubted her. She is so very good to me. I smile at her, pleased that she hasn't turned me away.

"Show me you're mine, Andrea. Come for me, now."

Her eyes roll back, her back bends, strung taut as a bow, her thighs lock together around my wrist but I don't let that hinder my movements. It's long moments before her pussy grips me fiercely, unwilling to let me go. I wonder if she can feel my rings in her pussy, whether she sees the symbolism in it. She falls moments later into a satisfied, boneless heap on the mattress. Her twitches are endearing and I admire them as I pull away from her gently, reluctantly, and my other hand soothes the irritated skin on her neck, never enough to bruise, but physical proof of my touch.

I can't manage to keep my hands or lips idle as they dance over her heated skin, always eager to feel and reassure that she's still here. I used to worry all night after we'd play like this that she'd be gone the next morning, satisfied by me and no longer wanting, still do occasionally. I cease my touch and place her on her side facing me. I let her be for now, waiting until she has a grip on reality to let her make her decision. The familiar panic of her pending rejection fills me again, and I am hopeless to banish it. I will never feel good enough for her. I will never live up to being worthy of the happiness she brings me. I just hope that she won't ever seek better prospects for herself. I know there are many.

Her eyes flutter open, and her gaze is clear and settles upon me immediately. I bolster my courage and open my mouth.

"Are you with me, Andrea?"

She studies me carefully, and after a moment's consideration, where I am sure she has decided to dress and go, her eyes widen in understanding and love, but not pity. I know she has figured me out, it happened many years ago now, while she worked for me even. I wonder what she will do this time with the knowledge that I live for her when her eyes harden with determination and brighten with love. Her tone makes it sound like her answer should be obvious, and in my heart, I know it is.

"Always, Miranda."

And absolution finds me.


End file.
